


A Blanket of Roses

by Moonlark



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Horse Racing, F/F, Kentucky Derby, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-08-13 19:23:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7983316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlark/pseuds/Moonlark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about horse racing. It's also a story about love. Those who are familiar with the sport will tell you that the two have a lot in common. Those who are familiar with love would most assuredly agree, even if they are ignorant of the sport and have never seen a race in their life. </p><p>Such is the power of love and horses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Race Day

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not an expert on horse racing or on the Kentucky Derby. I have done research, but I cannot guarantee accuracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains several injuries and the death of an animal. They are not described graphically.

On the morning of the Derby, Meghan wakes a full hour before her alarm and lies in bed gritting her teeth and trying to clear her mind. This happens every race day, so much that she's started to consider it part of her pre-race routine. She'll calm down by breakfast, and by the time they're called to the post, she'll be in the racing headspace.

She eats lightly--mostly fruit--and then heads over to the stables. It's not her first Derby, so she knows the type of security they have around the horses. The security guards know her, too, but they check her pass before they let her in, just in case. She doesn't mind--thinks it's good, really. A good Thoroughbred can cost more than a house, and Derby hopefuls are the best of the best, the greatest two year olds in the country. Someone could make a fortune if they got their hands on any one of the horses, so it's better to make sure the opportunity doesn't present itself.

Also, there's a long history of dirty moves and attempted sabotage in horse racing, so there's a necessity in making sure everyone plays fair and square. Hence the tight security at the racetrack.

Most of the horses look up when she walks in, but they lose interest when she doesn't pay them any attention other than a slight smile. She heads down the row, stopping in front of the seventh stall. Witless swings his head over the door and wickers softly when she walks up. He noses at her pockets, even though she doesn't have any treats on her, and hasn't for a while--it's important to make sure his diet is carefully controlled. In a sport that depends this much on luck and speed and such a short amount of time, every little thing can matter. Witty isn't the favorite, but he's still considered one of the strong contenders, and a little thing--be it strategy or superstition--could end up being the difference between a win and not even showing.

There's a reason a horseshoe is a symbol of luck.

There's a reason Meghan's pre-race routine is always exactly the same. She grabs a brush, slips into the stall, and proceeds to attempt to lose track of time.

“Knew you'd be here,” a familiar voice says a short while later, and Meghan looks over and nods a hello to her friend Tobin, Witty's trainer. They've worked together training and racing horses for three years now, and have known each other well before that. Tobin knows all about Meghan's usual pre-race jitters, and she's never made a big deal out of them. She's real easy to work with.

Meghan shrugs. “Just trying to avoid unwanted attention. How would you do it?”

“Whatever I do, it doesn't work. It's just seven and I've already been beat over the head and away by a rabid reporter.”

“Oh, yikes,” Meghan says dryly, then laughs as Witty noses her shoulder. “You greedy boy, can't stand it when you aren't the center of attention, can you?”

“No, he really can't,” Tobin agrees, and laughs as Witty whickers a wordless reply.

The rest of the race day preparations seem to fly by, and in what seems like no time at all, Meghan's in her silks--the shimmering forest green and pale gold of Pine Beach Stables--and back in the stable, waiting beside Witty for the call to post.

“Fast track today,” Tobin says, leaning against the stall door.

“Yup,” Meghan answers. The skies have held, the rain will wait till the race has been run.

“Witty’ll like that. He'll be moving fast.”

“Yup.”

“Settle him into second or third early. Wait around the first turn, then move in the backstretch. He can run a race away in the second half if the track's dry. Give him his head by the final turn. He'll get it done.”

Meghan nods. She's heard this already, and Tobin knows she's got all the strategy down, but it's a pre-race ritual for them. A superstition, really. Witty's done well in all of this year's races so far, and they don't want to take any chances.

They'll do whatever they can to get luck on their side.

The call to post sounds, and Tobin steps back to give them a little more space. Witty is led out of his stall, and Meghan swings up on top of him. A track hand on horseback comes up next to them and takes hold of the reins, and then the slow walk out onto the track begins.

The afternoon sunlight is bright and harsh after the stable's cool shade, and Meghan squints and flips her goggles down. She pats Witty's shoulder and whispers something nonsense to him, as she always does when they're stepping out, and his ears flick backwards, catching the quiet words against a backdrop of noise falling from the crowd of nervous, excited people who have come from every corner of the country to watch these horses run.

Some horses spook under all that attention, with all the noise and bright colors surrounding them, and in fact one of the horses ahead of them does, a skittish gray from New York--but Witty has never been bothered by the show. He loves it, revels in it--shows off to the crowd more often than not, and after each race done and won, he always sends a little prancing bow toward the indistinct figures in the stands.

The stands here are even more interesting than usual, filled with the bright, gaudy outfits that form an over-the-top Derby tradition, the clothes overflowing with flowers and tassels and too many neons and pastels, but Meghan doesn't notice. She'll have time later to look and admire (or laugh). Now, the world has narrowed to just her and the track and sixteen competitors and Witty below her, eager, uncomplaining, raring to go.

They're turning around now, heading back toward the post. Their post position is seven, solidly in the middle section of the gate, not too far to the outside that they'll have to cross the whole track, well placed for a strong start and an early move.

Witty goes into the gate easily, shifting from foot to foot as the door's shut behind him. The horse next to them nickers, and Witty answers back. But he's still practically trembling with eagerness, because he knows exactly what this means. The race in front of them, the reason they're here, is about to begin.

The last horse is in the gate.

They're waiting.

They're ready.

They're set--

_Crack!_

Witty breaks hard and fast, shooting out of the gate as it opens. He’s out in front of the pack, just behind three--no, two--others. They're hugging the rail coming toward the first turn, and Meghan nudges Witty in toward the rail behind them. They settle in easy, running hard, but holding back for later. Once they get into the backstretch--

It all happens so fast.

The horse in front stumbles. Swerves sideways. He hits Witty’s leg, and Witty goes down. Meghan is flung from the saddle, hard into the dirt in front of her horse. Her arm breaks the fall, and in it, something gives.

In a few seconds, the rest of the horses have thundered by and the pounding hoofbeats are fading away, no longer distinguishable from the quieter echoes in her ears. She uncurls from the ball she'd tucked herself into, pushes herself upright, looks around. There's a medic running toward her, sprinting down the track, and Meghan tries to wave them off--it’s okay, I'm okay--but she can't really manage the movements. I’m okay, she says again (can't hear it through the ringing) and turns around. How're you? How's… Witty.

Witty is trying to haul himself up from the track, hopping on three legs while the fourth is held high above the track. The whites of his eyes are showing, and he keeps trying to hobble away, almost falling down with each step. There's a foamy lather running down his grey hide, and he's trembling, in fear, in pain. Every time his left foreleg so much as brushes the track, he yanks it back up again.

Down on the packed dirt beside him, lying scarily still, is another horse, a dark bay wearing cherry red and white. It takes Meghan a moment to place the colors of Maplewood Crest, and another to remember the horse's name. Sweet Dancing Glory. With jockey Matheson. Who is now half pinned beneath the motionless horse.

Meghan takes a single step forward, and in the time that takes, the medical crews have reached them. They bring an ambulance, too, and one of the medics prompts Meghan into it. Then there's Matheson on a stretcher, teeth clenched and almost crying.

Before the doors close, Meghan catches one more glimpse of the horses. Track hands are gathered around Glory on the dirt, hiding him from sight. There's another track hand holding Witty still, stroking him between the wide, whitened eyes, keeping him from panicking and injuring himself further. There’s a veterinarian crouching by Witty's foreleg, several more around the hidden bulk of Glory.

Somehow, even though there's no visible confirmation, she can tell that the other horse is dead.

A pair of EMTs climb into the ambulance with them. The doors close. They drive off the track. And slowly, steadily, beating on the metal above them like some somber funerary drum, it begins to rain.


	2. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I vanish for three months, appear from nowhere to update, then vanish again-- as the homework dictates it.
> 
> Now, I might not vanish now that it's almost break. But my work is gonna come before writing, so it may be a while between updates.

The hospital confirms what she's already figured out: her arm is broken. A clean and complete break through both the radius and ulna. She also has the beginnings of many colorful bruises all over her body, and some swelling in her elbow that the doctor assures her is not serious, but they still want to keep an eye on, just in case. There's also signs of a probable concussion, and they say they'd like to keep her under observation overnight, just in case.

She's a world class jockey. They aren't going to risk anything.

The doctor realigns her arm and sets the plaster cast, then leaves her in the dark room with a sling, the choice between her dirty, sweaty silks and a paper gown, a warning to take it easy on the elbow, and a suggestion she get some rest-- a nurse will be around in an hour or so to check on her. She chooses the gown, then decides to take that advice and go to sleep while she can.

It's dark outside when she wakes up, but the clock beside her bed says it's only been half an hour. Absentmindedly, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and tries to stand. Her muscles stage a vehement boycott of this idea; she can barely hold herself upright for two minutes, let alone keep her feet under her. Everything is stiff and aching, with muscles she didn't even know existed locking up in knots and crying when she tries to move. Besides, the motion is making her feel dizzy and nauseous. She decides to be practical and lie back down.

There's a knock outside the room, and then Tobin's standing in the doorway, the light from the hallway behind her making Meghan's head hurt. “Hey, short stuff. Oh, wow, you look like something the cat dragged in.”

“You should see what it looks like under this paper scrap,” Meghan laughs tiredly. “I didn't know it was even possible to bruise an entire boob.”

“Yikes,” Tobin says, wincing but hiding a grin. She shuts the door behind her and blinks as her eyes adjust to the darkness, then grabs one of the hard plastic chairs, turning it around so she can sit in that backwards way of hers. “How bad is it?”

Meghan raises her arm, thumping the cast lightly against the bed. “Broken arm, as you've probably guessed. Might be some shit in the elbow, too. Probably a concussion. Oh, and there are bruises fucking _everywhere_.”

Tobin nods, quirking up the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, I can see some of those. You've got something purple on your face.” She reaches out and brushes a thumb over a tender, swollen spot right over Meghan's cheekbone.

“Ow,” Meghan says dryly, but she doesn't pull away. “I feel that. I feel them all. These drugs aren't good enough.”

“What'd they give you?”

“Mmmm, can't say exactly. But nothing strong. Not the good stuff. I might be a little high though.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Tobin sighs.

Meghan squints at her. “You look kinda tired.”

“Yeah, well, rough day.”

Meghan knocks on her cast again. “Oh, and you get to say that?”

Tobin scowls. “I had to deal with the press. Stupid attention vampires don't know how to give anyone space.”

“I thought you liked Press,” Meghan jokes. “You're fucking her, right?”

The words have the intended effect. At the mention of her girlfriend, Tobin blushes, but the tense lines at the edge of her mouth ease a little. “You know what I mean, Kling. Different press. The media. Those soulsucking cockass sadistic _bastards_.”

Meghan laughs. This is old ground, familiar ground, an argument they've worn over so many times every inch of it is familiar. “You love it.”

Tobin pouts. “They’re so annoying.”

“So am I, and you still love me!”

That draws a laugh. “At least you can admit it."

Meghan shrugs. “Yeah, well, I'm good like that.” She pauses, collects her thoughts. “They find out what happened?”

Tobin sucks in a breath. “Yeah,” she says eventually. “Glory had a hole in his heart.”

“ _Jesus_.”

“Just a little one. Tiny. Wouldn't’ve been a big deal if he hadn't been racing. But all the racing, and the transport, and the diet, it all put a stress on his heart. And today it just gave out.”

Meghan’s silent for a moment. She feels kind of sick. But. “Then why'd they race him?”

Tobin's reply is biting. “You think they would've had him running if they'd known?”

“No. Of course not. Labbé wouldn't let them. Even if Wilkinson was for it.” She's rambling, stumbling on words a little. Maybe not as fine as stated. “And she wouldn't be. Neither would Matheson. They-- they're not like that. Wait, how is she-- Matheson?”

Tobin looks down at the floor. “Well, not many things can break a human femur, but a Thoroughbred horse is evidently one of them.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Meghan says again. She can't think of anything else to say.

“She'll be okay, they said. No lasting damage. She's conscious and just as small and angry as ever.”

Meghan sits up as fast as she can. “Hey, watch what you say about us smalls.”

“Nice to know you're also conscious and just as small and angry as ever,” Tobin laughs.

“Oh, just shut up,” Meghan says, lowering herself back onto the bed and shutting her eyes. It's probably not good that the room was spinning a little there. Besides, sitting up is hard work for the battered muscles in her back.

She thinks back to that afternoon on the track. She wants to ask what happened to… but no. She's not ready for that yet. No. A different question, please. “Who won?”

“Um, Sing a Sad Song. Just beat out Darth Comet by a nose.”

Wonderful. “A second straight success for Arch Point.”

Tobin shrugs. “They're getting cocky. Not gonna get good horses three years running. Someone's gonna take them down.”

“Don't jinx it.”

Tobin cracks a smile. “I won't.” She reaches over and knocks her knuckles on the wooden windowsill.

They lapse into silence once more, disturbed only by the hum of the hospital's air conditioning and a growl from Tobin's stomach. Meghan lets her eyes slip shut again, trying to put off the unavoidable question.

Eventually, she can't take it any longer. “How's Witty?”

Tobin looks away. “Broken leg. Clean, luckily. He won't race again, but it'll heal. Rachel wants to keep him around, so he's staying.”

Oh. Well. Better than she'd been expecting, she realizes. Too many horses have to be put to sleep from broken legs that won't heal. It's the lurking nightmare that haunts the whole of racing.

It takes her a few seconds to realize the other implications of such an injury. Rachel had said Witty would be Pine Beach's last horse. They all assumed he'd be running for a lot longer than this, but Rachel isn't one to change her mind easily, and besides, there isn't really the money to keep the stable running. If Witty's career is over, then Pine Beach is too.

Which means that she no longer has a job.

"Well, what're you gonna do now?" she asks Tobin.

The other woman shrugs, half-grinning. "Go back to the hotel, soon as I'm done here. Eat dinner. Sleep. Try not to have nightmares about your sorry face."

Meghan scowls. "It's still prettier than yours."

"Lying is a sin, Kling. I can't believe you would do this."

Meghan pouts and stares up at the ceiling. "Why must you kick me while I'm down?" she whines.

"It's just too fun," Tobin laughs.

Meghan scowls. "That's schadenfreude. And anyway you didn't answer what I meant."

Tobin shrugs. "Well, honestly, I got no idea. You know me, I don't plan long term well. I'll just wing it, I guess. Find some other stable. Spend some time with Christen. Maybe swing by the Triple R."

"You know, that sounds pretty good."

"Of course. Any time I get to see Christen is good."

"No, I meant-- going back to the Triple R. Haven't been in a while. It'd be nice to catch up with everyone. And, like. A place to start."

"At least till that plaster's gone, huh?" Tobin gestures at the cast.

"At least, yeah. I'll mope around the ranch like an old dog, doing nothing of value and making them keep me around out of sentiment and the goodness of their hearts."

"Meghan Klingenberg calling herself useless." Tobin shakes her head. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"You need two arms to race," Meghan shoots back, fighting a smile. It feels good to be able to voice her doubts without having to worry about them being taken seriously.

Tobin laughs. "You can still cook. They'll keep you around for that alone. Heck, I would."

"It's gratifying to be assured that my culinary efforts are appreciated."

"Big words for such a small woman."

Meghan squawks. "Hey! Don't come for me like this! I'm an invalid!"

"By the sound of things, you seem to be feeling better already."

"Nah, that's just the drugs talking."

They laugh, and then go quiet for a moment. A nurse sticks her head into the room and lets them know that visiting hours are almost up. Tobin nods and thanks her, saying she'll be out shortly, and the door closes again.

Meghan sighs. "They say I gotta stay here overnight. Can you come get me tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah, I gotcha. Anything I should bring?"

Meghan nods, swallowing. "Some clothes. As early as possible."

"All right." Tobin stands. "I'll be here as soon as they open the doors."

"Thanks."

"No problem. Take care, short stuff." And with that, Tobin leaves, and Meghan is resigned to staring at the ceiling once more.


End file.
